


To Tempt or Punish Mortals

by barbaricyawp



Series: In Hell I'll Be in Good Company [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blindfolds, Exhibitionism, Forced Orgasm, Fuck Or Die, Fucking Machines, HYDRA Trash Party, Humiliation, M/M, Multiple Orgasms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 12:42:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16346948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbaricyawp/pseuds/barbaricyawp
Summary: Steve is tortured, and Bucky is the instrument of torture.More HYDRA trash. This time from Steve's POV.





	To Tempt or Punish Mortals

**Author's Note:**

> I had promised a nice epilogue next, sat down to work on it, and gave you HYDRA trash instead. Didn't want you to think I'd lost my edge.
> 
> This is not a nice fic, heed the warnings.

* * *

Greedily [Eve] engorged without restraint,  
And knew not eating death; Satiate at length--  
and heightened, as if with wine.

 -John Milton, _Paradise Lost_

* * *

 

The year might be 2016 (or it might be 2017 already; he’s been in HYDRA captivity for so long now) and Steve Rogers wishes he didn’t have a body. Or maybe, just not _this_ body. This body which can take and take and take some more—more hurt, more pleasure, more strain and ache—without hesitating, without slowing down. Each time it’s battered into submission, it gets up and keeps giving as good as it gets.

HYDRA has him strapped to his cot, bound to the corner posts, arms and legs spread into their weakest angles away from him so he has no chance of fighting. And they always blindfold him for sessions like this. Perhaps, Steve reasons, this is for the tactical disadvantage, but they more likely blind him because it drives Steve wild.

Wild with not knowing whose hands rub over his shoulder or savagely tweak his clenched pectorals. (“Nips match lips,” someone says when they pinch his mouth.) Not knowing how many people are in the room, watching his humiliation. (He hears the dry sound of skin on skin, occasionally, or maybe that’s a pencil scratching across paper, taking notes.)

And worst of all not know what they’ve got strapped between his legs.

Something wet and spongy flexes in a tight cuff around Steve’s cock, pulsing inexorably around him. When they’d first applied it, Steve had assumed it was a person’s mouth. But the pressure is too uniform, unending. He guesses a rubber sleeve, maybe, attached to suction. It wasn’t so bad at first.

But that was hours ago, must have been, and now Steve is twitching on the cot, thrashing up against his cuffs helplessly. His entire body is ravaged.

For hours, he’s fought every orgasm, battled it back with clenched teeth and panting breath. Each rising crest of adrenaline and degradation, brutally beaten back for as long as Steve could bear it.

And every single time, Steve fails. Each time, he inevitably succumbs to the sickening rush of pleasure that hauls him under. The pressure is too good, too insistent. It’s a terrible liquid heat that trickles slowly down the base of his belly and into his cock, aching now and still straining. 

For a moment after orgasm, Steve floats sensationless and numb. But the machine around his cock doesn’t stop, doesn’t hesitate. It keeps working him. And he’s raw, totally wrung out. He aches all over, skin sensitive and alight with the unique agony of too much pleasure. His body twitches helplessly. Steve is losing the stamina to fight the climax, especially as his body keeps traitorously bounding up to meet the attention every time.

He’s coming in shocky spasms that wrack his whole body with a particularly savage orgasm—dry, because his body couldn’t recover quickly enough to catch up with him—when the cell door opens.

“Holy shit, Commander,” a man says loudly from the door. Steve doesn’t recognize the voice. “He’s a wreck. Good job—”

The man is quickly hushed and several voices exchange whispers. Steve remains sealed in his hell of enduring unending orgasm, waiting for them to come to a goddamn decision already.

Footsteps approach him, and he tilts his head up a little, jaw defiantly lifted away from them.

This gets a muffled laugh from the group. Sounds about three or four people, though Steve can’t be sure. His head is swimming, his body floating above him.

The machine is removed. Air, blissfully cold, rushes around his abused penis and he gasps in relief. But the relief is short-lived when a hand slicks lube over his cock, the pressure lighter than whatever they had around him before, but that’s a different kind of torment now. Like rubbing a sunburn.

Steve moans, “God, do you ever stop?”

The cot creaks as someone climbs on top of Steve, the weight straddling around his waist and what sinks down around him next—tight, hot, slick—is _definitely_ a person, and Steve flinches back.

He knows instantly what game they’re playing with him today.

“Is this Bucky?“ he asks, half-crying, half-screaming, wild with the uncertainty, because he _knows_ that this is him and hates knowing it. Even despises himself because if it _is_ Bucky then it’s so much better—the desire to be near him again only driving the stakes of his pleasure higher—but so much worse because they’ve never done this before. This is Steve’s first time touching him like this and Bucky isn’t even here for it. 

“Well?!” he calls out, gasping, “Is it?”

Someone gives a harsh tug to Steve’s blindfold. The dim light of the cell stings his eyes, but he flinches at what is directly above him.

Yes, it’s Bucky on top of him, and, yes, it’s Bucky riding him like it doesn't even mean anything. But it’s Bucky in his Winter Soldier muzzle. Eyes blazing and present, as if he were engaged in combat.

Fuck, maybe in his mind, he _is_ in combat right now.

Steve turns his head away. His entire body feels clenched into itself, contained in its misery. This doesn't cause Bucky to hesitate, though. Bucky, kneeling with one hand braced on Steve’s chest, lowers himself down onto him. 

Bucky is tighter than the rubber sleeve they had around Steve’s cock. He’s hotter too, and softer inside, seeming to mold around the shape of Steve. He squirms under him, breath coming in short pants. It’s too much, and Steve says as much, _Please, Buck, it hurts_ , but it’s hard to tell if Bucky even notices Steve’s distress. He rolls his hips in leisurely, torturous undulations that seat Steve so deep inside him, he sees stars.

Bucky’s eyes are fixed on Steve, though, evaluating. The mask stays on.

For what it's worth, Bucky seems more present today, a light on in his eyes that isn’t always there, but Steve is suspicious of himself; he might be projecting hope. And just because he’s alert now doesn’t mean that he’ll stay grounded in the present. His presence isn’t constant. If Rumlow or Rollins gets involved, Bucky usually dims. Plays dead.

Steve Rogers has never seen Bucky Barnes play dead before.

But he can’t really blame him; Steve himself feels like he’s on the verge of giving up, of going limp and tapping out of this round. Would be easier just to give in, to close his eyes and let himself feel Bucky. How good he feels, bobbing and flexing around him.

And, Christ, he wishes he could just give up now, but he can’t. He just can’t give himself—and Bucky—over to HYDRA like that. Can't offer them up on a plate. The idea alone of emptying himself into Bucky is sickening, sends a dizzying wave of nausea over him. So, he fights his own urge to come because the fight is all that’s left of him.

Steve looks over his friend now, trying to ground himself. He can’t get over what they’ve done to Bucky’s body, what they’ve made him into. Not just the arm, savagely ripped out and replaced, but the sheer deadly bulk of him now. No longer handsome and trim in a uniform, but massive. Stocky.

Bucky has always been fit, has always taken pride in his appearance, and even _he_ would admit that his new muscle mass is excessive. He looks brutally carved into this body, bulked up to an unnatural size. 

Then again, that’s what Bucky said about Steve’s own transformation. Back when he was still himself.

Brock Rumlow steps up behind Bucky, resting a hand on his shoulder. Steve startles at the sight of him, forgotten completely that he was in the cell. Hadn’t even thought to glance around the spectators; they didn’t matter. 

“You got four minutes to make this happen, or it’s the chair.” 

This gets Bucky’s attention. He straightens up, lit with new purpose and incentive, and he impales fully on Steve, thighs quivering in their locked clench around Steve’s hips. His fingertips spread wide over Steve’s stomach, extended to brace himself as he hammers him down into the bed. He drives down over him in demanding pushes, angling to wring him dry, squeeze out what’s left.

And Steve is finally worked up, his skin prickling and his limbs wobbly. Bucky is everywhere, hot and tight and all around him. But still, Steve hesitates, fighting himself despite knowing he shouldn't.

“The mask,” he croaks, struggling. “I can’t…”

He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. Bucky, or whatever is left of Bucky in the Winter Soldier, can still anticipate what Steve means. He rips off the muzzle and it’s the same face under there that’s always been there. His hair is damp with sweat, stuck to his forehead at odd angles. His mouth is parted to let out abortive pants, just as effected as Steve is, but better at hiding it.

It’s still Bucky. This is still Bucky, Steve knows it.

Bucky smiles a little, and the effect is ghoulish in this context. But Steve can’t help it. He doesn't want his friend to go to the chair--whatever the  _hell_ that is--over Steve's stubbornness. So, he flexes his hips up to get the right angle and comes, groaning in pain. The sensation of his release is dangerous, feels as if it might spiral out of control and alter him in some way he can’t recover from.

Demented, the whole thing is demented.

Once Steve has come fully inside him, Bucky climbs off slowly, his own legs are a little shaky from exertion. And, as Steve watches him clamber off, find his pants, he realizes for the first time that Bucky is _hard._

Rumlow ushers Bucky towards him and the other agents. Steve tracks his movement across the cell, not willing to let him out of sight just yet. He grinds his teeth, bracing for what they’re about to do to him, what new horrors they're about to show Steve, but Rumlow just opens the door. They’re leaving.

“What are you gonna do to him?” he asks, unable to help himself. His tongue feels like lead in his mouth. He’s all spent out.

“I’m sure you can make a few guesses, Rogers.” Rumlow gestures to Bucky to come along, with more urgency than before.

But now Bucky has lingered behind to stare openly at Steve, evaluating again. Trying to figure him out. Still fighting in there, then. Good man.

“Soldier,” Rumlow snaps. “Let’s go.” 

Steve doesn’t miss the way that Bucky’s spine straightens at the order, the way his body flinches to obey. And he does, he always obeys in the end, but first Bucky mouths something to Steve. Something that the others can’t see.

“Thanks,” he mouths. And leaves Steve alone in the cell.

 

 


End file.
